“Clearly.” I smile, because his frame is tauter than the decorative posts of my canopy bed.
“Why did you take off the ring?”
“Because I don’t want to lose something of such value.”
“Put it back on.”
I tilt my head.
“Please,” he adds around a rush of breath. “Please put it back on.”
Though I’d prefer to leave it in his care, I slide it back into place. He stares at it, then at me, and although I cannot read his mind, I can tell he’s having a gazillion thoughts all at once.
“Please don’t leave.” His hands tumble down to his sides and ball into fists. “I swear that I’ll never keep a secret from you again. And I’ll never allude to blood-drinking or birdseeds. I’ll even give you another bargain.” His intensity unsettles me almost as much as his despondency.
I raise my palm and feel his forehead.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Checking for a blood sigil to make sure I didn’t just invite a Shabbin witch, who took your face, inside my bedroom. Or fever, I suppose.” When no crimson rises to the surface of his forehead, I ask, “What nickname do you enjoy calling me?”
“Xhina.”
I purse my lips. “Not that one.”
“Yegma.”
“I suppose anyone could know that.” I lower my hand. “Do I have any birthmarks on my body?”
His pupils contract. “Yes. One shaped like my crumbling empire.”
“Your empire is not crumbling,” I say. “Also, it’s shaped like Glace? Just how closely did you study it?”
Pink streaks across his cheekbones, and then he’s rubbing his bent nape.
I smirk. “You called me an enigma, but you’re one as well. A posturing ice prick ninety-nine percent of the time, and boyishly insecure the remaining one percent.”
“I’m not insecure,” he mutters. “I’m just?—”
I fold my arms. “You’re justwhat?”
“You make me feel things which I’m not equipped to contend with.”
“What sort of equipment do you feel like you need to contend with me?” I ask, my bad humor a thing of the past. “You have a heart, albeit one encased in a hefty layer of frost, and you have”—I purposely lower my gaze, knowing it’ll heighten his color—“other pieces of equipment which I usually find appealing.”
He hikes up a brow. “Usually?”
“Well, I haven’t actually seen yours.”
Instead of driving more blood into his face, my remark seems to clear his complexion. And his mood. “I didn’t think you had any interest in seeing it.”
I sigh. “If you’d have asked me during supper, it would’ve been a categorical no.”
“But now?”
“Look, I may not hold grudges, Konstantin, but you hurt me today.”
His eyes, which he drags back and forth over my face, spark with worry.
